Onion
by fanfictionhaleb
Summary: "Shock was the first emotion to filter into his brain when she – Hanna Marin – invited him to crash on the spare couch in her basement. It was in this bold act of humanity that he – Caleb Rivers – decided he was going to meticulously peel back every single layer of her onion of a personality and get to know her. The real her."
1. Prologue

He knew who she was. Of course, he did. Everyone did. He guessed that _that_ was the reason that he was so intrigued yet repulsed by her.

The way she walked around the school like she owned it. _She did._

The way she sort of looked past you, not at you as though you weren't worth her eye contact. _You weren't_.

The way she kept up her bitchy façade to protect herself as though she thought everyone was waiting for her to falter. _They were_.

_Fuck._

Keeping this all in mind, shock was the first emotion to filter into his brain when she – Hanna Marin – invited him to crash on the spare couch in her basement. It was in this bold act of humanity that he – Caleb Rivers – decided he was going to meticulously peel back every single layer of her onion of a personality and get to know her. The real her.


	2. Chapter 1

He doesn't even register what's going on until he feels her perfectly manicured talons dig into his mouth to shut him up. She always wants to shut him up.

He's _naked_ and Hanna is avoiding eye contact with him at all costs and her fucking _mom _is in the bathroom now talking to Hanna about a _charger_ as though he isn't in the shower with her forbidden fruit of a daughter sporting a hard on that's growing with each passing second.

He wills himself to think about literally _anything_ other than the blonde in front of him. His overactive imagination isn't on his side on this one, and even if his life depended on it, he couldn't think about anything other than shoving her up against the pristine wet tile of the shower and burying himself deep, deep, _deep_ inside of her.

Hanna shakily exhales after her mother finally gets the hint that it's _probably_ time to leave and that she should_ probably_ head back to her 9-5 at the bank. They're just staring at each other now and all of the blood from his head has rushed to his cock and if he doesn't turn around and face the shower head instead of Hanna within the next two seconds he _actually_ might faint.

When he turns back around (_because they probably should address their current predicament, right?_) he catches her, eyebrows raised, staring at his lower half in all of its glory.

_Fuck_.

He gives her one of his panty dropping smirks. Before today he couldn't even be sure that those smirks were working on her because of how calculated and stoic she always pretended to be. But now he knows. He has visual proof –_ and believe me, the image of her ogling his ass and subsequently his arousal is now committed to his memory_ – that she wants him just as badly as he wants her.

"You want to share a towel too?"_ Ever the smart ass._ But he's also 100% serious about the offer.

It's her turn to look away and the blood begins to pool into her already reddened cheeks. "My mascara," her voice is barely audible, and with that she haphazardly climbs out of the shower.

His left hand is already wrapped around himself before the bathroom door slams shut. This isn't the first time that he's jacked off to the thought of a naked Hanna Marin. Next time he does, the way he imagines those curves won't just be a fantasy, though.

* * *

In retrospect, he probably should have realized that their actions in the shower were the exact moments where things got fucked up for them. He was slowly piecing together the idea that she probably wasn't as experienced in the sex department as she was fronting to be, but _Jesus Christ_ he was _new_ _in town_ and with the way everyone worshipped Hanna, he figured there had to be some varsity basketball or football or whatever-the-fuck-ball captain getting in her pants regularly. All he knew is that if he were some blue eyed, All-American, boy-next-door, jock, he'd be tapping her ass the way she deserved. Every. Single. Day.

But, her intensified coldness and awkwardness around him in the days following the incident prove him right.

Hanna's fussing through the fridge, probably looking for some quinoa or watercress or whatever it is that rich people eat on a Thursday night as he enters the kitchen. Ashley isn't home, so Hanna is forced to interact with him uninterrupted.

"Can we talk?" He folds his arms across his chest and his biceps bulge against the thin fabric of his dark tee-shirt. The foreign feeling of warmth pooling between her thighs isn't so foreign when she's around Caleb anymore, and she looks away from him completely. _Her body is a traitor. _

She knows she's been treating him like shit for the past two days, but what else is she supposed to do? Not being able to keep her emotions in check over a boy isn't exactly what she signed up for when she invited the brooding delinquent to be her roommate.

"You're speaking right now, aren't you?" She rolls her eyes to prolong the whole avoiding eye contact thing.

"You've been treating me like something you scrape off your shoe ever since our shower. If you want me to leave, just say it." Though his voice is even, his heart is kind of breaking. He wishes he could have had more time to properly christen the couch in the basement...and Hanna's bed...and that fucking _shower,_ but at this point he's far too used to not staying in one place for too long. He can have his trash bags packed in the next five minutes if that's what she wants.

"I don't want you to leave." She says a little too quickly. "I just-" she starts, but can't finish her sentence. He wonders if this will be the first time she takes off her protective armor for him.

He takes a step forward, encouraging her to speak. "You can say anything." He uncrosses his arms, taking off his protective armor for her as well.

She looks up at the ceiling, trying not to cry. She doesn't even know why she's so embarrassed – he's the one that should feel vulnerable, intruded on while naked by a classmate. She still hates herself for blushing and fighting tears, though.

"If I made you uncomfortable-" he starts again, but she cuts him off. Again.

"It's not that, it's just that I wasn't..." She trails off, looking up to the Gods in her ceiling again, willing them to make the floor collapse and suck her down deep into the Earth.

"Ready to see that much of me?" He questions, though it isn't really a question. It's a fact.

"No." Her armor is back on.

He cocks his head as if to tell her they're past this performance stage.

"Yes." She finally admits, finally looking at him eye to eye.

"What? Now you think you have to throw down too?" He hopes she knows by now that he'd never force her to do something she didn't want to do. He's not that kind of guy.

"What if I don't want to?" Her voice is small.

"That's okay." His response is automatic.

Though he looks and sometimes even _acts_ like the boy that her mom and every single teenage TV show have warned her about countless times – the cliché bad boy with long hair and combat boots. The one that lets you take a ride on his dick before he lets you take a ride on his motorcycle – she knows that he's different.

She's been building up the nerve to respond, and when she does her voice is even smaller than before, "what if I _do_ want to?"

He's taken a bit aback and it shows on his face. He takes a second to regain his composure. "That's...okay too."

When she finally leans in to press her lips against his, he imagines they must look like what the first kiss in a cheesy, Jennifer Aniston rom-com looks like to the viewer. Everything is happening in slow motion and she tastes like cherry and summer nights.

_Cherry? Summer nights? Did he think he was Edgar Allan Poe or some shit? He was already in _way_ too fucking deep for this girl._

His tongue tentatively traces her full lips as he begs for entrance into her mouth. She allows it, just like she allows his hand to dip underneath her cotton shirt and for him to use his rough hands to caress the silky skin of her back and waistline.

Unfortunately for them, air is still a necessity, and when she pulls away to take a labored breath, he dips his forehead down to touch hers. A hint of a smile tugs at her lips and her pout is too perfect for him to not go back in for seconds. Hanna's hands find his neck and she tugs at his hair with so much force that it's almost painful – _because of course she does_ – and she pulls him closer.

They breathe again and this time he uses restraint and creates some space between them by leaning back on the expensive countertop.

The pair of headlights on Ashley's BMW pull into the driveway and they both know they only have approximately thirty-seven seconds of alone time until the next morning when Ashley leaves for work.

He moves toward her once more and cups her chin. "You know, you don't have to pretend with me, Princess. I like you for _you_, not for the bullshit," and kisses her once more for good measure.

"I know," she says softly, because she really does, and Caleb slips back down into the basement for the night.

* * *

END

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